


Daisy Chain

by Ballofstring66



Category: Avengers, Clint Barton - Fandom, Fantasy - Fandom, Hawkeye - Fandom, Jeremy Renner - Fandom, MCU, Marvel, Sgt Will James, Sgt William James, The Hurt Locker, War - Fandom
Genre: And pretty much everything, Avengers - Freeform, Don’t copy to another site, Excuse my ignorance of military procedure, F/M, Hawkeye - Freeform, Jeremy Renner - Freeform, and my shitty writing, clint barton - Freeform, how do you get a shapeshifting witch, into the hurt locker, this is how
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2020-07-08 10:50:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballofstring66/pseuds/Ballofstring66
Summary: The Hurt Locker - Staff Sergeant Will James has a strange encounterStarted for a writing challenge - continuing because I like itStaff Sergeant William James [Jeremy Renner] & female OC witch/shapeshifterPrompt - “There’s looking for trouble and there’s begging.”





	1. Chapter 1

__

_**Daisy Chain - Chapter one** _

_James. Do you copy? James! We need you back here do you copy?_

_Copy that. Gimme a minute Sanborn. Looking into something._

_St_ aff Sergeant William James has his M4 jammed into his shoulder, the sun in his eyes and Sanborn still bleating in his ear.

_What do you have Blaster one? Is there a threat?_

_I don’t know yet. Maybe nuthin’._

_Give me your location. Do you copy?_

He doesn’t reply. He’s following a noise he heard - an odd sound - like sails billowing in the wind.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe something.

Maybe oblivion though something tells him not this time. Not yet. But he has to push towards it. Always. He’s aware that his compulsion breaks Connie’s heart. Is ruining their marriage. Not that they’re married anymore.

He rounds the corner into a quiet Baghdad back alley. The sun is directly in front of him - relentless - casting everything ahead into silhouette. He furrows his brows to get rid of the flies and proceeds - careful footsteps scraping in the sand. He can see the shape of a car blocking most of the width of the alley. There is movement on the bonnet.

 _Only one_ , he thinks but there might be more. Adrenalin is firing through him and he fucking lives for that but he knows he should call for back up. The sun moves behind a building as he gets closer and he blinks to clear his vision. He stops where he is and settles the M4 a little better into position. He can handle one insurgent and he’s still far enough away to get out of there if there’s more.

“Get down, get on the ground. Get your hands up!” he barks orders to the figure on top of the car. 

“Don’t panic soldier.”

He blinks. The figure has a well spoken English accent. Feminine. He can see her outline now. She looks slender. She _looks_ naked. What the _hell_ is going on?

“Get down on the ground _now_ or I will shoot you. I will shoot you in the head.”

“I don’t think you want to do that.”

She’s perched on the bonnet of a beat up Audi like she’s at a fucking polo match or something - long brown hair swept across one shoulder, knees raised up with her arms draped across them. Her pale skin says she’s western and she has caramel eyes that’s he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t even be able to make out from this distance but their rich, vivid colour seems like the only thing that’s really alive in this sun-bleached, trash alley.

She is as naked as the day she was born. Sitting on a car bonnet in the back street of a goddamned war zone. His mind skips through all the possibilities - she could be a mercenary or a westerner that’s been radicalised? But why naked - it seems like a trap. Social conditioning has brought him up to believe that a naked woman is not going to be a threat - that she should need his protection but his experience and instincts know this whole situation isn’t right. She shouldn’t be here and she doesn’t look like she needs _anyone’s_ protection - there’s no hint of vulnerability - she sits with her ankles crossed on the hood like she’s just _exactly_ where she wants to be.

“Get _down_ from the fucking car. Put your hands behind your _head_ or I _will_ shoot you!” 

Why won’t she listen dammit? Is she crazy?

“I’m really comfortable where I am to be honest.” 

This is _not_ how it goes. It’s fucked up. It’s fucked _up_ and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s weirded out enough to call Sanborn.

_This is Blaster one. Blaster Mike do you copy? Sanborn? I need backup I’ve got something_

But all he gets in return is static and a broken word or two.

He’s conflicted but he knows his job. As much as loves being close to oblivion - his M4 is still raised and it’s pointing at her.

“Ma’am this is not a _fucking_ tea party I _need_ you to get down off the car and kneel down with your hands behind your head. _Now_. Or I will fire. I _will_ fire.” 

He has to make a call. He has to. He _really_ doesn’t want to shoot an apparently unarmed, naked woman.

Silence hangs in the shimmering heat - sweat runs down his neck and inside his collar as his finger stretches and relaxes back against the trigger. 

Time stretches to breaking point then, thank the Lord, she steps down. He sees the puff of sand as her knees hit the dirt and her hands clasp behind her head. Sergeant James exhales and steps closer.

"Ma’am are you in trouble? Are you wired? Is there a bomb on you…?" 

His voice is pitched lower and softer now and he looks over her for injuries - signs of abuse. He’s heard of surgically implanted bombs - seen body bombs. He knows of devices placed into breast implants and his eyes travel up and down the kneeling woman but he sees no wounds and her breasts look natural to him. His eyes don’t linger - nothing about this situation is sexual. 

He wishes he had a jacket or something to cover her with.

_Sanborn, do you copy? godfuckingdammitt!_

The empty hiss of the radio tells him he is on his own.

”…is there a bomb in the car?“ He walks around the vehicle but his experienced eye sees nothing.

"There’s no bomb, Sergeant. Can I put my hands down now?” she asks as if she’s requested he pass the sugar. 

His eyes are still scanning his surroundings - alert for any changes - any signs of a potential threat and eventually they vine back rest on the kneeling woman.

"Where are your clothes ma’am? What happened to you?“ 

Her skin is flawless and he believes she’s telling the truth. He’s checked everything short of a full cavity search. 

"Nothing happened to me, I’m fine, the nakedness is just…an occupational hazard. Of sorts.” She gives a little shrug. 

“Are you a prostitute? Have you been trafficked?”

“Neither of those…”

“Then who the _fuck_ are you? “ He has moved round in front of her again and he needs answers because none of this makes any fucking sense. “Who the _fuck_ … _are_ you? Because you are very fucking calm for a naked lady in the middle of a war zone.”

“I know, I know. There’s asking for trouble and there’s begging right? So…would you believe… your fairy godmother?”

“No I fucking wouldn’t.”

“Genie of the lamp?”

“I don’t have a lamp, ma’am.”

“Good point, Will.”

The muzzle of the M4 suddenly presses hard into her forehead. “I did not tell you my name.”

“No you didn’t…”

“Stay down. _Stay. Down_!”

But she ignores him and she’s rising to her feet slowly, hands up and open- pushing the gun barrel to one side. Looking at him with those eyes like she can see into his goddamn shitty mess of a soul and he thinks he sees falling stars when he looks back in to them. 

“I came here to find _you_ , Will. You’re not at all what I thought you’d be …”

_James do you copy where are you what’s going on?_

His radio crackles into life

“Uh.”

He drags his eyes away, turns and glances back down the alley as if he expects to see Sanborn come around the corner and when he looks back she’s gone - as if she’d never been there at all.

He blinks.

“James what the fuck are you doing? What did I tell you about turning your radio off?”

Sanborn _does_ come around the corner and finds James standing there with his mouth open. James is never at a loss - the cocky little shit _always_ knows his next move but right now, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“You okay, man?”

“Slap me. I need you to slap me, JT.”

Sanborn knows his team leader. It’s not the first time he’s hit him and he doesn’t need to be asked twice.

“Okay,” he shrugs and obliges.

Will’s head snaps around at the force and he works his jaw to loosen it as his gaze rolls upwards then drops towards the ground.

“Feel better? What happened here, Will?”

“Thought I saw a naked woman.” He regrets saying it the minute the words start to come out of his mouth and he tries to make it a joke though his eyes stay fixed on the ground. “Naked, british woman.”

"Well damn, where’d she go?”

“Back into my dreams I guess.”

“Thats real cute an all but and we have a job to do so let’s go.” Sanborn believes Will is bullshitting and shakes his head as he walks away. 

Will scuffs the toe of his boot over the outline of a bare foot in the sand then lifts his head and follows.

Back at the base, Beckham is kicking his ball around in the dust and Will drains his coke and calls him over with the hook of a finger.

“Hey, kid. You know of any british women in the area?”

“I get you DVD’s with women. Lots of women.”

“No, kid, you know - a real woman. A white british woman….” he hesitates then adds, “…naked. She might be wandering around with no clothes on. ”

He thinks Beckham is just going to try and sell him more porn but the kid cocks his head as if he’s thinking.

“Rukk?”

“What? What’s Rukk?”

“Rukk.” Beckham wafts his arms in a flapping motion like a bird and his mouth shapes itself into an O to make the accompanying noise.

It sounds like sails billowing in the wind.


	2. Chapter 2

"Rukk?"

“Yeh, " Will draws on his cigarette, savouring the taste as he leans against the humvee, cultivating that air of nonchalance that he doesn’t always feel but he knows drives guys like Sanborn crazy.

  
"Where’d you hear that?" Sanborn is side-eyeing Will like he has something on his mind. Will knows what’s coming - it’s only a matter of time.

"The DVD kid, Beckham. I don’t know, you know, he talks a lot of trash, " Will says.

"Sinbad," Eldridge pipes up out of the blue, still staring out across the desert as if he isn’t really listening.

"What?" 

"What?"

Both men turn to look at the kid in surprise. 

"Sinbad. A thousand and one Arabian nights - the _Roc_ is a giant bird that threw, I don’t know, stones at him or something. "

"At Sinbad?" Sanborn always has to double check everything.

"Yeh. Rukk sounds like Roc - maybe?" Eldridge turns his head and gives them a shrug.

"A giant bird huh?" Will envisaged a giant bird and the sound it’s wings might make.

"Is this related to the naked woman?"   
  


Will folds his arms, keeping his burning cigarette pointed up, and sucks at his cheek but doesn’t answer.

_Fuck._

He knew that would come back to bite him in the ass.

  
  
"What naked woman? " Eldridge is on high alert now. 

"Captain James here had a vision of a naked, British woman in an alley yesterday."   
  
Eldridge just looks confused but Sanborn’s eyes are boring into Will.   
  


"Mirage," Will shrugs as he drops the cigarette butt into the sand and stubs it out. "Guess I’m missing my not-wife," he says out of loyalty to Connie. But he isn’t. He isn’t missing her at all. 

* * *

The bed creaks as Will stretches to unlace his boots. It’s been hell today. His mind doesn’t dwell on the details, or they souls they lost - he tries to blank it - stay detached - but the memory crawls over his skin and seeps into his pores like poison. He badly wants a shower but he’s not gonna rush. The routine of removing his uniform brings a sort of comfort, peels away what he does for a living. He’s not sure what’s underneath though, what does it reveal? He does a good thing for a living but he doesn’t think he’s a good guy. Grandpa would have said it didn’t matter what your motives were - you do a good thing? Then you’re a hero. That was about the closest Grandpa ever came to talking about _his_ war.

Naked, Will checks himself in the mirror. He can feel where the bruises will come up but there’s no skin broken, no unnoticed wounds. He stares at his body, fingers travelling of their own accord over the smooth skin. They pause at his one, tiny tattoo - the little jewel coloured figure over his heart, a copy of the tattoo Grandpa had - then they move downwards to trace the outline of the flak wounds. Another memory all too vivid right now that he wants to dilute with a shower even if he can’t quite wash it away. 

The palm of his hand slides a little further but stops short. He’s getting hard - adrenaline - shock - whatever - but he doesn’t want to do anything about it yet - that’s not his routine. Shower first, then beer - the release comes later when alcohol has helped his mind let go of its grip on the horrors.   
  
The shower is lukewarm - they never manage to get really cold - and he bends his head, feeling the water on the back of his neck as his eyes close and she appears, unbidden, in his mind. Not Connie. He tries to change it to Connie but he can’t - _she_ resists. The woman in the alley - Jean Genie as he's christened her. It’s been days since he saw her - or thought he saw her but she won’t leave him alone. It’s always her eyes first - like the fucking Cheshire Cat or something, they are the first thing he notices. A rich, golden caramel they dance and flicker, draw him forwards - away from Connie - a burning candle in the dark.

* * *

  
The next time she shows up in person, he’s pictured the moment so often that he can just about fake his usual nonchalance but it takes some effort because she’s sitting on his goddamned bed. He has an armful of beers, cola and snacks and he’s pretty proud of himself for not dropping the whole damned lot when he walks in to his room.

"Make yourself at home." He doesn’t reach for his gun this time, he just rolls his eyes and dumps his haul from the mess on the chest of drawers before closing the door. Theoretically, he should be sounding every fucking alarm in this place but she’s naked again - passive - if she’s some kind of ninja assassin he doesn’t get why she wouldn’t just ring his neck before he even had time to register she was here. 

"You seem much less trigger happy today," she says in an approving, sing-song voice. "How come?" 

  
He purses his lips before he answers, sucks his cheeks in then turns around and leans against the furniture.   
"I figure you’re either a manifestation of some kind of ..." It takes him a moment to come up with a likely mental illness. "...shell shock - whatever - or you’re a witch." 

Witch? That’s ridiculoushe doesn’t know where _that_ came from...

"Either way if you’re aiming to kill me you don’t seem that committed."

"You think I’m a figment of your imagination?" The approval changes to a gentle hint of concern.

"I don’t know _what_ you are, you _seem_ real," he shrugs, "I can see your ribcage moving as you breathe so you look like you must be made of flesh and bone, you leave footprints in the sand, and you go out of your way to find me when I’m alone so I guess you don’t want to be seen which maybe means you _can_ be seen by other people. If you were the projection of a crazy person I think maybe you’d show up anywhere and people would wonder who I was talking to."

  
"So, by default, if I’m not a figment of your imagination, then I _must_ be a witch."

"I guess. Why are you always naked?"

"Does it bother you?"

He doesn’t want to answer that so he pulls his packet of smokes out from his pocket and busies himself lighting a cigarette. 

"Would it help if you confirmed that I _am_ flesh and bone?"  
  
"It would _help_ if you just told me who you are and what you want."

"Are you afraid of me, Will James?"

He exhales a long plume of smoke and plucks a strand of tobacco from his lip. He doesn’t want to answer that question either because he doesn’t know. But even if he is, he doesn’t walk away from things he’s afraid of, he walks towards them. Every day. Grandpa taught him that. 

"I’m flesh and bone, " she says and rises from the bed. She’s not shy at all and he takes a real look at her this time, smoke drifting from his mouth as his eyes travel over her. He doesn’t know where this is leading but he can appreciate a beautiful woman when she’s right in front of him.

She steps up close and reaches for the cigarette, teasing it from him. He thinks she’s going to put it out but she takes a draw on it herself and lets it dangle from her fingers as that hand drapes over his shoulder. Her other hand slips under the hem of his tee-shirt and rests palm flat on his waist.

"See? Flesh and bone."

Man, she is beautiful. His fascination for things that could kill him has drawn him to some dubious situations but this one tops all of them. His head dips towards her and there’s barely a whisper of smoke keeping them apart now.

"Tell me your name." He breathes the request like an incantation and she’s so close that he feels the brush of her lips against his as she gifts it to him. 


End file.
